The Devil Is a Marquess (Rescued from Ruin Book 4) (5 page)

Chatham’s voice was silken. “A pile of rubble. If you know ‘a great deal,’ then you know it is not a fit place to bring a wife.”

The steel gaze hardened further. “Find a way, Rutherford.” His eyes dropped to Chatham’s ribs. Presumably, the disgust curling the man’s nostrils was offense at Chatham’s thinness. “Or don’t. If you starve and leave my daughter a widow, I pay you nothing, and she is free to marry elsewhere.”

“Assuming she does not also starve.”

“You do not know Charlotte,” Lancaster said simply, then sat on the edge of the desk and pulled a watch from his waistcoat pocket. “I will provide a servant or two and pay them for the year.”

“Ah, yes,” Chatham murmured. “Speaking of espionage.”

Lancaster ignored him. “No additional funds will be provided.” He crossed his arms across a barrel chest and met Chatham’s gaze. “Have we a bargain?”

There, looking into fire and steel, Chatham discovered how tired he truly was. Bloody bone-weary. His thighs and lower back ached. His head floated a foot off his neck. His arms refused to lift the glass. Never had he been so tempted to find another twelve bottles and let the darkness swallow him down.

Something wanted him to stay, however, for he found his mouth opening.

His voice answering.

His everlasting fatigue receding long enough to sigh and say, “A bargain it is.”

And his mind battled the intrusion of horror with the reassurance:
It is only a year, after all.

*~*~*

CHAPTER FOUR

“A bargain is a battle of wits to which some bring pistols and others bring bricks. I leave it to your judgment which will be the victor.”
—The Dowager Marchioness of Wallingham to her son, Charles, upon his sale of a champion thoroughbred to the Duke of Blackmore.

Charlotte arrived at her father’s rented house just as the sun was setting. Golden light made the pale stone of the four-story structure glow yellow-orange.

“Don’t bother, Oliver,” she told her uncle’s coachman-footman-stable-hand as he began to climb down from his perch. “I have managed well enough, as you can see.” She grinned up at him from the walkway, her bubbling joy spilling forth.

Oliver blinked and scooted back onto the driver’s bench, touching his hat briefly. “Aye, miss. As you like.”

“I shan’t be long.” She spun on her heel and faced the house on the north side of Cavendish Square with hope all but bursting her heart’s seams. This could be it. This could be the moment when she would be put in charge of her own life. Mr. Pryor had asked her to await his arrival, but she could not. She simply could not.

With a deep breath, she climbed three of the four steps to the door and knocked. A manservant, as dour as a crow and suitably dressed in black, answered. “Miss Lancaster, I presume.” He stood aside and waved her in. “This way, if you please.”

“Thank you.” She climbed the final step and entered the house, removing her gloves, bonnet, and blue silk pelisse and handing them to the servant. “May I know your name, sir?”

The crow’s frown deepened, his bent body freezing in place as though she had asked him for directions to mythical Mount Olympus. “Townsend.”

“Thank you kindly, Mr. Townsend.”

He returned her stare, holding her pelisse and blue-rosette bonnet and white silk gloves in limp hands.

“Is there some difficulty?”

Clearing his throat, he shook his head and answered gruffly, “No, miss. Not often I am asked for my name. Most do not bother.”

“How very peculiar.”

He continued staring up at her, his sidelong glances making it obvious where his speechless wonder really stemmed from. He likely had never seen a woman as tall as she. However, she was much accustomed to such reactions.

“Perhaps you could take me to my father now?”

“Of course.”

He led her down a corridor to what she presumed was her father’s study. The house was richly appointed, the walls paneled in white, the moldings classically simple, the floors polished wood. Tasteful and lovely though it was, she had been inside dozens of London town houses that were virtually the same. Elegant, yes, with thick carpets in the music room and dining room and drawing room, triangular pediments over the front doors, and long windows lined up in perfect symmetry. When she had a house of her own in America, it would not be a structure built from a mold. It would be unique.

A little thrill ran from the base of her spine to the top of her head.
She
was not meant to be the same as all others, either. She had known that from her first breath, had felt it every moment of her five London seasons. And, as Mr. Townsend lightly knocked upon the white-paneled door at the end of the corridor, she knew with similar certainty that her days of following the ton’s orderly dance, of adhering to every rule and convention, were nearing an end.

“Come,” the deep, graveled voice of her father said through the door.

She grinned at Townsend as he swept it open, turned her grin upon her towering, blaze-haired father as she charged inside with long strides. “Papa. You are looking well.” She rose up on her toes to kiss his whiskery cheek.

“How much did that gown cost me?” he grumbled, patting the back of her shoulder in his usual awkward hug. “And what has you so cheerful?”

She chuckled lightly and ran a hand lovingly over the smooth silk over her hip. “Isn’t it splendid? My modiste is one of the greatest talents in the city. She is Italian, but I suspect even a Frenchwoman could not compare. Of course, one must pay for quality, would you not agree?”

“Hmmph,” came his answer before he waved to a velvet-upholstered chair facing his desk. “Sit, girl. We have much to discuss.”

Again, she grinned up at him and did as he bid, sinking onto velvet and glancing toward the window. The sun had gone below the horizon, leaving a dim twilight sky and three candles to cast a shallow glow around the desk. It felt warm and cozy, the fire crackling merrily behind her, the prospect of freedom beckoning.

She met her father’s gaze. He did not seem to be enjoying the ambience. “Mr. Pryor mentioned you have a proposition.”

“Charlotte, you know I wish for you to marry.”

She nodded, resisting the urge to offer a sarcastic reply. She would hardly be in her fifth season otherwise.

“Unfortunately, it has become obvious that attracting the sort of match I desire is not within your capabilities.”

She raised a finger. “I did warn you, Papa.”

He continued as though she had said nothing. “Therefore, I have arranged a match for you.”

Waiting a full minute for him to elaborate, she listened to the crackle of the fire and slowly blinked. “A—a match?”

“The gentleman in question has agreed to my terms—”

She shook her head, her stomach first cramping then sinking like a stone to the bottom of a pond. “No.”

“He will marry you, and you will live with him for at least a year.”

“No.”

A scowl settled upon her father’s bushy red brows, pushing them down low over hard eyes. “You will do this, or I will put a stop to your allowance.”

“Should that trouble me? It will be a blessing to be rid of the harness—”

“All payments to your aunt and uncle will likewise end.”

This time, the “no” was a whimper inside her head. She attempted to regulate her breathing, struggling to keep it even and steady. She wanted to leap up and shout that he could not do this, that Aunt Fanny and Uncle Frederick had been loving parents to her when
he
had abdicated the position. That he owed them far more than the funds he gave them for her upkeep, and so did she. That Andrew and the twins would need those funds for their grand tours and their education. But she knew her father. He would not be persuaded by pleading or emotional entreaties.

Carefully, she laced her fingers together in her lap. She wished she had kept her gloves on. Of a sudden, the chill of the room settled beneath her skin, making her hands mottle with cold. “In that case, perhaps you would care to explain your … demands in greater detail,” she said smoothly, proud of herself for the evenness of her tone.

“You must have known this was coming, Charlotte. We discussed the possibility when I arrived weeks ago.”

Yes, they had. Her father had visited Brook Street a fortnight after docking in Liverpool and promptly announced that her friendship with a certain eligible earl signaled that she’d been actively resisting his aims for her. She had argued that Lord Tannenbrook was simply a kind man who had defended her honor on a previous occasion, and that they had become friends, nothing more. He had not believed her. In fact, he had approached Tannenbrook and all but threatened the man’s life to take her hand in marriage.

In yet another humiliation to add to her endless stack, James had staunchly refused, saying he would not be bought and advising Rowland Lancaster to allow his daughter the dignity of making her own choices. Her father had not taken it well.

Now, she could see that the rejection of his offer had not, in fact, dissuaded her father from his goal, but had further fueled his determination. He must have returned to Tannenbrook and offered him a sum too great to refuse. She happened to know that James had spent a decade rebuilding the ramshackle estate left to him by a distant relation. As a result, he was not particularly wealthy and likely could use the funds. She was surprised he hadn’t mentioned anything earlier this evening, but he was a taciturn sort, and perhaps he had not wished to pressure her.

Marrying him would be no hardship. He was a decent, honorable man, solid and steady. There was not a drop of romance between them, but certainly, there were worse choices among the peerage. Their children, should they have any, would likely be freakishly tall. Aside from that, she had little reason to object.

Except that she had other plans for her life. And she was watching them burn to ash in the fire of her father’s ambitions.

She swallowed hard, feeling those ashes searing her insides, rising to singe her throat. “You …” She swallowed again. “You said one year.”

He nodded, the deep crease between his red brows a black slash in the dimming light. “Agree to the marriage. Live with him for one year. Then, if you both wish to part ways, you may do as you like. No divorce or annulment. But you will be free to live as you please.”

Free to live as you please. One year, and you will be free.
It was not what she had wanted, but neither was it the hopeless situation she had thought. She must wed someone she did not love, yes. But then she would be free. Being a married woman instead of a spinster might even prove beneficial as she built her businesses in America. Yes, this could actually work quite well, particularly if she negotiated better terms.

Sliding a glance at her father, who sat still and frowning behind his desk, she said, “He gains a large dowry, I presume.”

Her father nodded.

“Mmm.” She gave him the same smile she often gave Mr. Pegg. “And what do I receive in recompense?”

His chest puffed a bit. A good sign, in her estimation. “The damned title isn’t enough for you, girl?”

“I never wanted a title. Again, I ask, what do I receive?”

“What do you want?”

“My allowance for the year. Tripled.”

The chest that had inflated released a choking laugh like a bellows. “Balderdash.”

She sniffed. “Tripled, Papa. The entire sum at my sole disposal. No Mr. Pryor. No husband to put his hands upon it. Mine entirely.”

Shaking his head, Rowland Lancaster scoffed, “You would run off after the first payment.”

“Perhaps. That is the risk you take by behaving in this high-handed manner.”

“Double.”

“Triple.”

“And you will get it at the end of the year. A lump sum.”

“Triple, Papa. Then I shall agree to take it as a lump sum.”

His eyes narrowed on her, glinting in the firelight. “Done.”

Triumph swelled in her breast. She wanted to shout again, but this time, a resounding cheer. Triple her allowance was an absolute fortune. She could not only fully fund any business she desired, she could buy the largest, most unusual house in America to live in.

And she only had to marry James and be his wife for one tiny year. It was not ideal. Viola would be distraught, no doubt, and Charlotte’s heart ached for her friend. But if this was what Tannenbrook wanted, then the die had been cast. And he was a far better option than many gentlemen of the ton. Charlotte enjoyed his company. She was certain they would get on well, and she was glad his life would be made more comfortable with her dowry. When she considered everything she’d endured over the past five years, this bargain was not bad. Not bad at all.

Her smile must have been rather smug, because her father leaned forward and said, “Don’t you wish to know who your husband will be?”

“Oh, I’ve already guessed. How did you persuade Lord Tannenbrook to change his mind? When you spoke to him last, he was most adamant—”

“It is not Tannenbrook.”

Not … Oh, dear God. Her lips shaped the word “no,” but there was no breath behind it. When her air finally returned, she had only enough for one syllable: “Who?”

Rowland Lancaster’s eyes traveled past her shoulder, toward the fireplace. It was not Papa who answered. Instead, the response came from behind her amidst crackling flames and the faintest rustle of clothing.

“I’ve always found it wise to affirm all conditions of a bargain before striking it, Miss Lancaster. Pity you never learned the same lesson.”

At the sound of his voice—silken and deep, mocking and wry—she shot from the chair, spun around, tripping on her own slippers until she had to catch herself against the velvet back. He sat in the darkest corner, barely visible. Orange light played with his features, but even that revealed his paleness, the hard, lean look of him starker than four months earlier, when he had pinned her like a helpless bird from across his mother’s ballroom.

“Chatham,” she breathed.

“Rutherford, actually. Though, you are welcome to call me whatever you like.” Light glanced off the glass in his hand as he raised it to sensual lips. “I suspect your vocabulary will grow immensely after we marry.”

*~*~*